OF TRAINS AND TIFFANY WATCHES
Some new additions to our Christmas tree. Aside from my new house ornament, I added a little capiz jeepney Lorenzo and I got in Corregidor, which I tied with dental floss and voila! instant ornament! I also decided to twirl some plaid wire-edged ribbon around the branches, which meant I had to take all the ornaments down again to rearrange them around the ribbon, but I didn't mind. Lance helped, by handing the ornaments to me while I was perched up on the ladder, and Troy livened things up a bit by climbing on the rungs under me when I wasn't looking.
We also had to do away with the tree skirt this year. Lorenzo gave in to Lance's pleas, and assembled a smaller, albeit longer train set. Now the base of my Christmas tree is surrounded by two train tracks, in two concentric circles. The smaller train was supposed to go to my oldest son, Max, in Toronto, but my babies liked it so much we ended up keeping it. It came with a train station music box which made train noises and played Christmas carols.
There is a good reason why I wanted to send Max, my 9-year-old boy, that train set with the music box. It gets a little convoluted, so stay with me on this. When Max was 2 years old, we celebrated Christmas in the U.S.. We had just moved back to Manila from Europe by the end of 1995, and when I knew we were going to the States for Christmas, I tore out a spread I saw in Elle magazine, featuring watches. A Tiffany & Co. watch had caught my eye, which I thought was a steal at $395. I decided I wanted THAT watch for Christmas.
Our first stop was Beverly Hills, CA, where we stayed for a few days, saying hi to my Auntie Olive and going to Disneyland. Our hotel was right on Rodeo Drive, which was perfect because Tiffany's was just a few short steps away.
So there I was, perusing the glass stands with bright Holly Golightly eyes, when I saw it. The watch of my dreams! To my dismay, however, the price tag read $1195. I pulled the folded Elle page (stolen from Rever salon) out of my purse, and sure enough, it was the same watch in the picture, advertised for $800 cheaper.
Eagerly clutching my ammo, I asked to see the watch, brandishing the ad when it was time to haggle for the price. I needn't have bothered. First of all, I should've remembered I was at Tiffany and Co., not some remote Arabian souk, and haggling was not to be tolerated in these august halls. Secondly, I was coolly informed by the perfectly turned out manager that they ran an erratum on the following month's issue of Elle, so my claims of false advertisement had no basis.
But Tiffany's did not know the extent of my resolve. Tiffany's did not know that the next stop on my itinerary was Singer Island in Florida, which was just a stone's throw away from Tiffany and Co. in Palm Beach. With a determined look in my face, I marched into the Worth Avenue landmark, and found the most benevolent looking salesperson in the building.
I still remember him: quiet, glasses, sandy brown hair, mustache, in his mid-40's. I asked him if I could see the watch, which, like its Beverly Hills twin, also had $1195 discreetly printed on its tag. Max, who had already witnessed a similar scene a few days earlier, sensed another haggling session in the horizon, and proceeded to howl in protest. My ex-husband took him to the center of the store, where there was a miniature train set going around a lilliputian town, with little doll houses and a matching train station. This entertained my son for a few minutes, while I showed the man the Elle spread and insisted that they give me the watch for $395.
Without missing a beat, he said he'd see what he could do, and went to the back of the store.
Max, in the meantime was working his two-year-old charm around Tiffany's, darting in and out of stands, and generally driving my ex-husband crazy. The salesman reappeared, saying he couldn't find the manager, and, hoping to rope my ex into the negotiations, handed Max the train station to appease him.
He told us that he couldn't honor the magazine price because it was obviously a mistake. Sensing that the man did not know about the erratum, my ex and I went in for the kill: I acted all disappoined (since threats and indignance did not work in Beverly Hills) and my ex pointedly suggested that I do a story about Tiffany's when we get back home, explaining to the salesman that I was a "news personality" in Asia, and that it wasn't Tiffany's fault, but people should be informed, et cetera, et cetera.
This time, the ruse worked. Nonplussed, the poor man stammered that he would again look for his manager, and disappeared from sight. He surfaced, this time with the manager, who took one look at the ad and told us they would honor the price. She made small talk with us while the salesman boxed my watch with a forced smile, asking me about TV news, and "did I do local?", to which my ex replied, "no, National. She's seen all over the Philippines". This seemed to impress the manager, who obviously did not know much about Philippine viewing markets.
We fairly scampered out of that store with my treasure neatly giftwrapped and tucked into the famous aqua colored shopping bag, with "Tiffany and Co." emblazoned in front. We had beaten the establishment! We were on top of the world!
Our celebration was cut short by the opening strains of "Jingle Bells". In our excitement, we didn't realize that Max still had the train station music box! The salesman, who had already been finessed out of his commission, was not about to let us get away with another freebie. He ran out of the store just as we were about to walk in, and received the music box with a resigned smile. Max, on the other hand, was not about to give up his treasure so easily. He protested and cried all throughout lunch, while we promised him we would get him another music box.
That train station music box seems to hold sway over toddlers, much like the Pied Piper's pipe attracts rodents. I finally found one last year in my neighborhood Walgreens and bought it, hoping to send it to Max. He was still eight at the time, an age where it was still okay to play with trains.
In order to appease Lance, who was then the reigning 2-year-old in my life, I bought another, bigger train set. I explained to Lance that the bigger train was his, and the smaller one was for his Kuya Max. He seemed okay with it at the time. My husband, Lorenzo, set up his train under the tree, and he was fascinated by its forward and backward motion and working whistle. Contentment reigned, and all was well in the Sereno household.
And then someone leaned against Max's wrapped present in front of the fireplace, and the opening strains of "Jingle Bells" came on. The light turned on in Lance's 2-year-old eyes, and he refused to let that giftwrapped present out of his sight, figuring out, in just under a minute, where the buttons were located, and pressing them again and again to hear that wonderful music.
When Christmas was over, I kept Max's train box high up in my closet, with the intention of sending it EARLY this year, way before Lance gets into the holiday spirit. My resolve would be unbroken. I would be strong this time.
But Lance had another ace up his sleeve, and I, of all people, should've known he was about to up the ante. This year, he spied the train box up in my closet EARLY. And this year, he had a formidable ally working on his side: his baby brother, Troy. I was no match against Lance's sharp mind and Troy's large, liquid eyes. Between them, they managed to charm Mommy to take the train set down from the closet, Lance generously giving Troy first dibs on the music box.
I retreated to my computer, where I feverishly searched for something else to send Max. I found a miniature Hogwarts Express train set, complete with Platform 9 3/4, on sale for just under $70. With handling and shipping to Canada, everything came up to about $100, which is still a steal considering they sell them in the mall for $130 before taxes. This was the perfect present for Max, who is a Harry Potter fanatic.
I called up my son and honestly told him about the train with the music box, and the story behind it, but he didn't seem to mind. He was too busy telling me the plot of the second Harry Potter movie, where Harry missed the Hogwart's Express and had to fly a car to go to school. He seemed excited over his present, asking if the train really worked. I told him it did, and he said he would keep it in his room.
It's funny how things that we considered important once diminish in time. That train station music box, once tearfully surrendered, was now being traded in. I didn't mind quite as much, Lance and Troy being its worthy beneficiaries. I guess it was the memory that I was so reluctant to let go of. The memory of that music box, and how it so entranced Max.
But then I realized that memories are mine to keep, and now I actually have this music box. Not just a memory, but concrete and tangible. I can see Lance and Troy fight over it, hear its music and train sounds, even feel it in my hands as I arrange it in its new place of honor on my mantel, where it will work its holiday magic over my children and grandchildren. A part of our family's tradition which traces its roots long ago, to that day in Palm Beach, where it was loved by another little boy whom I loved with all my heart.
And all because of a watch, a precious Tiffany watch which now lies forgotten in my jewelry case, the battery dead. Just like the marriage which once was. But time goes on, and wounds heal. It's a good thing that little boys are made to be resilient, surviving divorce and broken dreams. It's amazing to discover such strength and toughness encased within such a small package.
Just like my new Rolex.
Tuesday, December 17, 2002
BROWNOUT
Last night, we had a power outage. There we were, getting ready to settle down for the night, when POOF! all the lights went off. Normally, the city's backup generator would kick in within a few minutes, but this time, the power stayed off.
I was quite intrigued about this, especially since a quick peek outside revealed that the houses in the next block had their lights on as usual. I called the Modesto Police non-emergency line, and was promptly informed that someone had hit a power line on Hatch Road. I should've figured as much. While brownouts in Manila are indications of a coup d'etat brewing, here in Modesto it merely means someone has taken too much brew.
I had just put Troy down to sleep, but Lance, who was still wide awake, was quite scared at first. He quickly calmed down, however, when his Daddy found a flashlight and left him in charge. Lucky for me I remembered where I put the emergency candles, part of our Y2K stash. Lorenzo lit a couple of these, and we proceeded to enjoy the novelty of the experience.
I remember the frequent brownouts we had in Manila, during Cory's tenuous rule. Those were days of uncertainty, punctuated by a string of attempted military takeovers. One day some rebel soldiers came close to taking over my radio station, lucky for me it was my day off.
Despite the prevailing political turmoil however, we managed to rack up some pretty good memories of those dark days, eating by candlelight, exchanging gossip and the latest coup rumors, gathering around the piano after dinner, listening to my Daddy play and sing. Sometimes, we would skewer marshmallows on toothpicks and roast them over the candle flames, exulting in victory when they came out perfectly plumped, starting anew when they came out singed and burned.
Is it just me, or did marshmallows seem more delicious back home? The marshmallows of my memories came in all sorts of pastel colors. Over here, the selection is limited to plain surgical white.
We did have a few of these virginal marshmallows tucked away in my kitchen, which Lorenzo proceeded to roast over the stove. (Good thing we have a gas range, which works even during a power failure.) I put a pot over the fire to steam some sweet potatoes, and came up with some cans of vienna sausage to complete our repast.
It was a midnight snack fit for a king! Lorenzo roasted the sausages just right (I ended up burning mine, but he generously gave me his), and we ate them between slices of white bread, folded over like buns. Lance, being three-years-old, was more interested in his flashlight, and did not have an appetite for flame-roasted food (except for the marshmallows, which he consumed with gusto).
The lights came on again after a couple of hours, but we turned them off, not wanting to relinquish the moment just yet. The three of us stayed huddled over the stove, roasting the last of the marshmallows and sausages, staying up way too late, but hardly caring.
Lorenzo ended up staying home from work today. He is upstairs, sleeping, and I am letting him rest. I figured he needed all his strength for what I had planned for later.....
Last minute Christmas shopping at the mall!
Last night, we had a power outage. There we were, getting ready to settle down for the night, when POOF! all the lights went off. Normally, the city's backup generator would kick in within a few minutes, but this time, the power stayed off.
I was quite intrigued about this, especially since a quick peek outside revealed that the houses in the next block had their lights on as usual. I called the Modesto Police non-emergency line, and was promptly informed that someone had hit a power line on Hatch Road. I should've figured as much. While brownouts in Manila are indications of a coup d'etat brewing, here in Modesto it merely means someone has taken too much brew.
I had just put Troy down to sleep, but Lance, who was still wide awake, was quite scared at first. He quickly calmed down, however, when his Daddy found a flashlight and left him in charge. Lucky for me I remembered where I put the emergency candles, part of our Y2K stash. Lorenzo lit a couple of these, and we proceeded to enjoy the novelty of the experience.
I remember the frequent brownouts we had in Manila, during Cory's tenuous rule. Those were days of uncertainty, punctuated by a string of attempted military takeovers. One day some rebel soldiers came close to taking over my radio station, lucky for me it was my day off.
Despite the prevailing political turmoil however, we managed to rack up some pretty good memories of those dark days, eating by candlelight, exchanging gossip and the latest coup rumors, gathering around the piano after dinner, listening to my Daddy play and sing. Sometimes, we would skewer marshmallows on toothpicks and roast them over the candle flames, exulting in victory when they came out perfectly plumped, starting anew when they came out singed and burned.
Is it just me, or did marshmallows seem more delicious back home? The marshmallows of my memories came in all sorts of pastel colors. Over here, the selection is limited to plain surgical white.
We did have a few of these virginal marshmallows tucked away in my kitchen, which Lorenzo proceeded to roast over the stove. (Good thing we have a gas range, which works even during a power failure.) I put a pot over the fire to steam some sweet potatoes, and came up with some cans of vienna sausage to complete our repast.
It was a midnight snack fit for a king! Lorenzo roasted the sausages just right (I ended up burning mine, but he generously gave me his), and we ate them between slices of white bread, folded over like buns. Lance, being three-years-old, was more interested in his flashlight, and did not have an appetite for flame-roasted food (except for the marshmallows, which he consumed with gusto).
The lights came on again after a couple of hours, but we turned them off, not wanting to relinquish the moment just yet. The three of us stayed huddled over the stove, roasting the last of the marshmallows and sausages, staying up way too late, but hardly caring.
Lorenzo ended up staying home from work today. He is upstairs, sleeping, and I am letting him rest. I figured he needed all his strength for what I had planned for later.....
Last minute Christmas shopping at the mall!
Friday, December 13, 2002
A SIMPLE FLAN
Leche flan. Its very name is a redundancy of sorts. After all, what else do you make flan with but...milk?
Come to think of it, only Flipinos use the term "leche flan". Even the Spanish, who originally brought the dish to our country, simply call it "flan", as do the Portuguese. The French version of this dessert is called creme caramel, while its American counterpart is called custard. Whatever it is called elsewhere in the world, all incarnations of this dish include three basic ingredients: milk, eggs, and sugar.
My earliest memories of leche flan take place in my grandmother's kitchen. I remember those ubiquitous oval molds, which looked like cans of ham with their tops taken off. My lola would caramelize the sugar in those molds, and we would get startled everytime the syrup crackled as it cooled.
Lola Viring used to make her own leche flan, when my Lolo Maning was still alive. When it got to be too much trouble, she just started ordering it from our favorite bakery, Merced Bakeshop on EDSA. The Merced version was round, not oval like my Lola's, and it came with an extra serving of syrup on the side.
My adventures with flan started when I found the perfect round pan at McFrugal's, which reminded me of the Merced flans of old. To this day, it is the only mold I use. It's not easy to find a good mold. You have to have a pan that can withstand direct heat from the stove, or else you won't be able to caramelize your sugar for the syrup. (My sister-in-law, Anna, foregoes this step and just uses plain bottled syrup, but she says it doesn't come out the same as mine.)
Now when it comes to leche flan, I am a purist. Some people choose to be fancy, adding bits of macapuno and langka to the melange, but I like a simple, straightforward flan. No frills for me, thank you.
My forays into improvisation go as far as grating some lime zest into the mix, but since most of it usually ends up in my strainer, I just do away with this step altogether. I do, however, add a liberal sprinkling of vanilla for flavor, but I wonder if this is at all necessary. I forgot to add the ingredient once, but the people in my church pot luck didn't seem to notice.
Most people I know make leche flan with egg yolks. I personally find it too bothersome to separate the yolks from the whites, so I use whole eggs instead, mixed with evaporated milk and sugar. Sometimes, I use condensed milk with egg yolks, but only after my husband makes egg white omelettes, conveniently setting the yolks aside for me. This makes for a richer version of flan, so I don't make it often, at least not until Lorenzo's next protein binge. Then it's egg whites with every meal and enough leftover yolks in the fridge to send my inner Marie-Antoinette to the nearest whisk, screaming "Let zem eet flan!!!"
Actually, I AM up to my ears in flan right now, this being the holiday season. My husband gave my first holiday flan to his boss, and requests have been pouring in since. I've been turning them out, twice a day this past week alone. No mean feat, considering I only have ONE mold.
A minor emergency ensued once, when Lorenzo forgot the pan at work (my husband unmolds my creations in the workplace as flans generally get sloppy in transit). I seriously considered making tocino del cielo that day, foolishly thinking I could use my muffin pans.
My bravado was short-lived. Turns out you need a contraption called a bain marie to make tocino, which is as much akin to leche flan as creme brulee is to creme caramel. Oh well, people will just have to wait for a neighborhood Dulcinea to open here in Modesto, because no tocinos del cielo will be coming out of the Sereno kitchen any time soon. I'll stick to making tocino's poor cousin, thank you, at least until I find myself a bain marie.
There is also a story behind this season's first holiday flan. There I was, ready to pop the mixture in the oven when I realized I had run out of vanilla. Normally, this wouldn't even faze me (thanks to my church pot luck experience), but this was a special flan. It was going to my husband's boss, so it had to be GOOD.
So there I was, late at night, seriously considering hopping over to the store, when an inspiration hit me: why not make coffee-flavored flan, which I remember tasting when I was a kid! I nearly shot the idea down, when I realized all the coffee I had at home was ground coffee, which would not dissolve in milk. I needed instant coffee, which I haven't had in my house in ages.
Luckily, a thorough and desperate search yielded a single instant coffee packet, salvaged from Lorenzo's old MRE (Meal Ready to Eat) ration from the U.S. Army. I used this to flavor the flan in place of vanilla, and came up with my first cafe au lait flan, which I told my husband to present to his boss with a fluorish, no apologies needed. Necessity is truly the mother of invention.
The inspiration doesn't end there. On our next trip to the grocery store, I made sure to get the biggest jar of instant coffee I could find, along with a monster bottle of vanilla. Next time, I will try adding a heaping tablespoon of coffee, along with vanilla, into the mix. If it meets everybody's approval, I will call this my cafe con leche flan.
So much for "simple and straightforward". And I called myself a purist!
All this hue and cry is making me realize what I should've thought of long ago. Leche flan, which bakes for two hours and takes overnight to set, is hardly the perfect candidate for holiday mass production.
I think it is time to reconsider next year's holiday offering from the Sereno household. I need something that's fast, easy to prepare, and delicious enough to carry the Sereno label. Next year, I think I will walk the simple, downtrodden path many a housewife has taken in convenience. I will turn out that old American staple...fudge!
Now when it comes to fudge, I am a purist...nothing but milk, sugar, marshmallows and semi-sweet chocolate chips. Not for me those fancy-schmanzy creations, with nuts, dried fruits and every other stir-in Betty Crocker can conjure up. I like a nice, simple, solid chocolate fudge.
No frills for me, thank you.
Leche flan. Its very name is a redundancy of sorts. After all, what else do you make flan with but...milk?
Come to think of it, only Flipinos use the term "leche flan". Even the Spanish, who originally brought the dish to our country, simply call it "flan", as do the Portuguese. The French version of this dessert is called creme caramel, while its American counterpart is called custard. Whatever it is called elsewhere in the world, all incarnations of this dish include three basic ingredients: milk, eggs, and sugar.
My earliest memories of leche flan take place in my grandmother's kitchen. I remember those ubiquitous oval molds, which looked like cans of ham with their tops taken off. My lola would caramelize the sugar in those molds, and we would get startled everytime the syrup crackled as it cooled.
Lola Viring used to make her own leche flan, when my Lolo Maning was still alive. When it got to be too much trouble, she just started ordering it from our favorite bakery, Merced Bakeshop on EDSA. The Merced version was round, not oval like my Lola's, and it came with an extra serving of syrup on the side.
My adventures with flan started when I found the perfect round pan at McFrugal's, which reminded me of the Merced flans of old. To this day, it is the only mold I use. It's not easy to find a good mold. You have to have a pan that can withstand direct heat from the stove, or else you won't be able to caramelize your sugar for the syrup. (My sister-in-law, Anna, foregoes this step and just uses plain bottled syrup, but she says it doesn't come out the same as mine.)
Now when it comes to leche flan, I am a purist. Some people choose to be fancy, adding bits of macapuno and langka to the melange, but I like a simple, straightforward flan. No frills for me, thank you.
My forays into improvisation go as far as grating some lime zest into the mix, but since most of it usually ends up in my strainer, I just do away with this step altogether. I do, however, add a liberal sprinkling of vanilla for flavor, but I wonder if this is at all necessary. I forgot to add the ingredient once, but the people in my church pot luck didn't seem to notice.
Most people I know make leche flan with egg yolks. I personally find it too bothersome to separate the yolks from the whites, so I use whole eggs instead, mixed with evaporated milk and sugar. Sometimes, I use condensed milk with egg yolks, but only after my husband makes egg white omelettes, conveniently setting the yolks aside for me. This makes for a richer version of flan, so I don't make it often, at least not until Lorenzo's next protein binge. Then it's egg whites with every meal and enough leftover yolks in the fridge to send my inner Marie-Antoinette to the nearest whisk, screaming "Let zem eet flan!!!"
Actually, I AM up to my ears in flan right now, this being the holiday season. My husband gave my first holiday flan to his boss, and requests have been pouring in since. I've been turning them out, twice a day this past week alone. No mean feat, considering I only have ONE mold.
A minor emergency ensued once, when Lorenzo forgot the pan at work (my husband unmolds my creations in the workplace as flans generally get sloppy in transit). I seriously considered making tocino del cielo that day, foolishly thinking I could use my muffin pans.
My bravado was short-lived. Turns out you need a contraption called a bain marie to make tocino, which is as much akin to leche flan as creme brulee is to creme caramel. Oh well, people will just have to wait for a neighborhood Dulcinea to open here in Modesto, because no tocinos del cielo will be coming out of the Sereno kitchen any time soon. I'll stick to making tocino's poor cousin, thank you, at least until I find myself a bain marie.
There is also a story behind this season's first holiday flan. There I was, ready to pop the mixture in the oven when I realized I had run out of vanilla. Normally, this wouldn't even faze me (thanks to my church pot luck experience), but this was a special flan. It was going to my husband's boss, so it had to be GOOD.
So there I was, late at night, seriously considering hopping over to the store, when an inspiration hit me: why not make coffee-flavored flan, which I remember tasting when I was a kid! I nearly shot the idea down, when I realized all the coffee I had at home was ground coffee, which would not dissolve in milk. I needed instant coffee, which I haven't had in my house in ages.
Luckily, a thorough and desperate search yielded a single instant coffee packet, salvaged from Lorenzo's old MRE (Meal Ready to Eat) ration from the U.S. Army. I used this to flavor the flan in place of vanilla, and came up with my first cafe au lait flan, which I told my husband to present to his boss with a fluorish, no apologies needed. Necessity is truly the mother of invention.
The inspiration doesn't end there. On our next trip to the grocery store, I made sure to get the biggest jar of instant coffee I could find, along with a monster bottle of vanilla. Next time, I will try adding a heaping tablespoon of coffee, along with vanilla, into the mix. If it meets everybody's approval, I will call this my cafe con leche flan.
So much for "simple and straightforward". And I called myself a purist!
All this hue and cry is making me realize what I should've thought of long ago. Leche flan, which bakes for two hours and takes overnight to set, is hardly the perfect candidate for holiday mass production.
I think it is time to reconsider next year's holiday offering from the Sereno household. I need something that's fast, easy to prepare, and delicious enough to carry the Sereno label. Next year, I think I will walk the simple, downtrodden path many a housewife has taken in convenience. I will turn out that old American staple...fudge!
Now when it comes to fudge, I am a purist...nothing but milk, sugar, marshmallows and semi-sweet chocolate chips. Not for me those fancy-schmanzy creations, with nuts, dried fruits and every other stir-in Betty Crocker can conjure up. I like a nice, simple, solid chocolate fudge.
No frills for me, thank you.
Saturday, December 07, 2002
HAMADRYADS
Today is definitely a blogger day. I'm relaxed, it's the weekend, and we're putting up the tree!
Yesterday's chicken curry became today's chicken quesadillas. Lorenzo's favorite, Pot Roast with Mushroom Gravy (the ultimate comfort food), is in the oven. He even trained covetous eyes on my leche flan, but that ended up going to our gardener, Jose. Hope my little holiday offering brightens up his evening comida as his overdue visit brightened up my lawn.
Lorenzo rummages through the garage for the colored lights. He comes upon some pictures taken last Spring, most of them featuring our backyard pool in all its chlorine glory. The pictures bring us both a brief ripple of warmth...sunny weather and the sight of our two precious boys, two seasons younger, shorter and plumper than they are now.
Funny how much they've grown in half a year. Troy, whose curls now run topsy-turvy around his cherubic face, still had short, straight baby hair, and Lance had what was referred to as an "apple cut" in my childhood days. He now wears his hair short, but his "antenna", brought about by an unruly second cowlick, is still there. Lance will always be our bumblebee, and Troyee (my little breath of heaven on angel wings) will always be a plum-plum boy. I can almost see them both cringing at these nicknames when they get to be teenagers. I wonder what they will look like then, but I'm no a rush to visit the future. Time runs way too fast as it is.
Indeed, this being the season, I would rather take comfort in the ghosts of Christmas past. In fact, it would probably be more accurate if I called this treatise "The Hamadryads of Christmas Trees Past". This would be the perfect time to wax sentimental on trees, since my tree is being put up in the living room even as I type this.
My first Christmas memory takes place in my grandparent's house in Marawi in the Philippines. Marawi is the capital of Lanao del Sur in Mindanao, and it is perched up in the mountains, much like Baguio, only better because Baguio does not have Lake Lanao. I'm not sure if I remember a Christmas tree in that setting, but since my Lola Luz is a true Betty Crocker type, I'm pretty sure we had one. I don't remember a Christmas tree in our home in Baguio ("The Brown House"), but I do remember the giant stone fireplace in our living room, which was a perfect Santa Clause fireplace.
We did have a Christmas tree when we were growing up in Manila, a diminutive model sent from the States by our Auntie Olive. I remember it's usual place in the foyer, perched on a stand in front of the piano, displacing the mahjong table, which would be exiled to the library for the holidays. My Lola Viring would decorate the tree with balls, lights, pearl garlands and a flashing star, which sounds wonderfully normal, except the tree would be surrounded by multi-colored Japanese lanterns instead of parols (which I guess are too pedestrian for my Lola). Every year, around December, our house could be mistaken for a Japanese restaurant, if it weren't for the giant inflatable Santa head occupying the place of honor, right smack in the middle of our living room. Like clockwork, Santa would always appear on December 16th, watching over us being naughty or nice, until his brief reign ends on January 6th.
This year, I'm pretty sure my Lola will have the same tree up, and I'm willing to bet Malumanay will again be ablaze with Japanese lanterns and Santa head.
The first, and thankfully last, live Christmas tree I had was when I was living in Miami with my ex-husband. He was Jewish, and didn't particularly care for Christmas, but caved in to my entreaties for a tree because I was desperately homesick and 7 months pregnant with my oldest son, Max. I wanted to get an artificial tree, just like the one I grew up with, but he said that was declasse and anyway, REAL people bought REAL Christmas trees.
I remember feeling sorry for that tree when I chose it from the lot. My Mom and I trimmed the tree that night, and it was, literally, a very painful experience, leading to the discovery that pine needles pricked like REAL needles. I will never, ever buy a live Christmas tree again in my life. Besides, I cannot in all conscience reconcile the act of killing a tree to celebrate the arrival of He who brings eternal life.
It's appaling to see how people are so desensitized these days. For me, choosing a tree from a lot is no different from choosing a fish from the tank of a Chinese restaurant, knowing the next time you see the poor thing is on a platter with soy sauce on the side. "The Food Channel" once featured this really sick place, where people would pay up to $100 a pound for sushi that is so fresh, it is served between the dead fish's still writhing head and tail ("Nerve endings!", the restaurant owner proudly explains). No wonder this world is so messed up.
Before anyone recruits me to PETA however, I will admit to being a hypocrite when it comes to my favorite crustacean, lobster. During those rare times when I can afford it, I humanely ask the waiter to choose one for me (female please, with lots of roe!). This is a convenient way to avoid passing out the death sentence.
I did manage to turn my ex-husband on to Christmas. He didn't have the heart to rob Max of the holiday just because he had a bris. One of my happiest Christmas memories was going to Duty Free in Manila and buying the biggest Christmas tree I could lay my hands on (no live trees in P.I.!). Back in our suite at the Mandarin, I trimmed the 8-foot tree while Max excitedly watched, getting in the way much like Lance is now underfoot with Lorenzo in the living room. Max loved that tree so much, it followed him to Canada. I know they put it up in their basement last Christmas, with the aid of Connie, my ex-husband's ex-office manager, freshly Fed-Exed from Manila (what she was doing in Toronto was the subject of much speculation).
I remember my first Christmas, post-divorce. Lorenzo and I were already together then, and he flew back to the States ahead of me, my itinerary being Manila-San Jose by way of Miami, where I spent a few precious days with Max.
Lorenzo picked me up at San Francisco International and whisked me to Milpitas to celebrate the holidays with the Serenos. I was still a neophyte in the family, having just met them Spring of that year. Tatay and Nanay were very gracious, taking me sightseeing that weekend. I remember Kuya Sammy driving the van, Tatay riding shotgun, and Nanay insisting we stop at the nearby Vietnamese bakery to buy yummy meat-filled buns for our baon. We met up with Jun, Selina's family and Tito Ed (who would later be a godfather at our wedding) on the way to Monterey and Carmel, and had a wonderful trip.
Back home, I helped Nanay put up the tree. I felt really flattered when she complimented the way I arranged the colored lights, twining them around the branches as opposed to merely stringing them around in a spiral. Of course, this style called for a lot more lights, so Lorenzo had to buy more boxes when he picked up his kids, Joey and Chris, from his ex-wife's house. Chris helped his Dad and me finish the tree, taking over when Nanay retired for the night. The three of us worked feverishly until the wee hours, never stopping until we put the crowning touch on the tree, a blinking star, securely festooned to a pencil for maximum stability.
Lorenzo and I got engaged during that trip. I remember the date: December 28, 1998.
Flash back to the present: Lorenzo is putting up the tree in the living room with Lance, our precocious 3-year-old, in attendance. Troyee, still a baby at 16 months, was relentlessly pursuing the ornament box from all directions, so he was exiled to the family room. He is now contentedly puttering about my feet with his sippy cup.
I wonder if Kuya Sever and Anna are also putting up their tree, a 6-foot one which we gave them last year. It used to be our old tree when we were still living in our townhouse. My question is answered when Kuya Simon squawks my husband on his Nextel, saying Anna won the grand prize, a flat screen TV, in her company's Christmas party. Anna and Kuya Simon's wife, Ate Baby, work together, so I guess the four of them: Kuya Simon, Ate Baby, Kuya Sever and Anna, are living it up in SanFo.
Lorenzo, whose company party is also going on in San Jose, chose to stay home tonight to man the Christmas Tree Technical Committee, whose task it is to assemble our monster 9-foot tree. I head Creative, which means I will put up the ornaments once all the lights are up and running.
I love our Christmas tree, which came pre-lit with over a thousand Christmas lights. It's a formidable presence in our living room, commanding everyone's attention. Now, I must sheepishly confess that when it comes to Christmas trees, I am an unabashed child. Not for me those formal trees, done up in color coordinated ribbons and ornaments, with themes from Medieval to Country to the latest fad of the season. No, my tree will always be a "Kid's Tree", with keepsakes collected from yuletides past strewn higgledy-piggledy over every available branch, all of them telling their own stories:
Lance and Troy's "baby's first Christmas" ornaments,
a white Precious Moments heart, celebrating "our first Christmas together" as husband and wife,
a little round 2001 frame with a tiny family picture,
a snowman from someone's birthday cake,
a beaded candy cane I salvaged from a gift basket...
the memories are endless.
This year we plan to add a "house" ornament, to celebrate our buying our first home. It will take its place among the colored glass balls and icicles, the mini stained-glass houses, the delicate Romanian "turnips", the little gingerbread people, the silver pine cones, and a motley crew of snowmen: small, simple wooden ones, medium ones with woven caps and sleds, and big, fat plastic ones liberally sprinkled with glitter. And oh, did I mention the colored lights, which we pile on in addition to the white ones? And finally, presiding over everything, a Father Christmas teddy bear perched on top of our tree, in place of a star.
As you can see, I can go on and on about our Christmas tree, but Creative has a lot more up its sleeve. For instance, I have a red and blue plaid tree skirt with appliqued snowmen, matching the appliqued stockings on my mantel. We all have our own Christmas characters in our stockings: Lorenzo is Santa Claus, I am a mommy penguin. Joey is a reindeer, Chris and Max are young snowmen, Lance is a baby penguin and Troy is a gingerbread boy. My Mom, who celebrated last Christmas with us, had a Father Christmas stocking. I am putting it up with the rest because it looks too good to be relegated to the garage. Even Boris the Cat has his own stocking, but his will be hung in the laundry room.
A wooden wreath hangs on my front door with a teddy bear bidding everyone "welcome to our cabin", and a gingerbread Mom adorns the door to my coat closet. Christmas candles complete the look: a peppermint pillar, a red ball, and a Christmas tree candle garden. And of course, the piece-de-resistance, the thorn on Lorenzo's side (because Lance hasn't stopped badgering him about it all day), a battery-powered train set which goes around a circular track perfectly bordering my tree skirt.
The boys are finally asleep, and I sort through the ornament box which so fascinated Troy. I take the keepsakes out of their boxes one by one, making sure to keep the original tissue paper and plastic they were wrapped in. I sort them in piles, frustrated again, as I am each year, by the glass balls, which keep rolling everywhere. I survey the damage. More casualties this year...broken balls and icicles, missing hooks, torn threads. I throw away the shards of glass, and work with what's left. Lorenzo swears there were more ornaments last year, and looks in the garage.
I hang my the first colored ball, a delicate pink glass number. There's lots more to be hung before the babies wake up. I'm sure they will be adding their creative input in the morning, knocking down balls here and there, stealing snowmen, biting my gingerbread people. Even Boris leaves his mark, chewing the branches like he would with a natural tree. But this tree will survive the onslaught from kids and cat, much like its predecessors.
And when everything is hung and in place, tinsel icicles will be sprinkled as a final touch, and everyone will retire to a much-deserved celebratory mug of cocoa, topped with mini-marshmallows, melting to a froth.
Hot cocoa, anyone?
Today is definitely a blogger day. I'm relaxed, it's the weekend, and we're putting up the tree!
Yesterday's chicken curry became today's chicken quesadillas. Lorenzo's favorite, Pot Roast with Mushroom Gravy (the ultimate comfort food), is in the oven. He even trained covetous eyes on my leche flan, but that ended up going to our gardener, Jose. Hope my little holiday offering brightens up his evening comida as his overdue visit brightened up my lawn.
Lorenzo rummages through the garage for the colored lights. He comes upon some pictures taken last Spring, most of them featuring our backyard pool in all its chlorine glory. The pictures bring us both a brief ripple of warmth...sunny weather and the sight of our two precious boys, two seasons younger, shorter and plumper than they are now.
Funny how much they've grown in half a year. Troy, whose curls now run topsy-turvy around his cherubic face, still had short, straight baby hair, and Lance had what was referred to as an "apple cut" in my childhood days. He now wears his hair short, but his "antenna", brought about by an unruly second cowlick, is still there. Lance will always be our bumblebee, and Troyee (my little breath of heaven on angel wings) will always be a plum-plum boy. I can almost see them both cringing at these nicknames when they get to be teenagers. I wonder what they will look like then, but I'm no a rush to visit the future. Time runs way too fast as it is.
Indeed, this being the season, I would rather take comfort in the ghosts of Christmas past. In fact, it would probably be more accurate if I called this treatise "The Hamadryads of Christmas Trees Past". This would be the perfect time to wax sentimental on trees, since my tree is being put up in the living room even as I type this.
My first Christmas memory takes place in my grandparent's house in Marawi in the Philippines. Marawi is the capital of Lanao del Sur in Mindanao, and it is perched up in the mountains, much like Baguio, only better because Baguio does not have Lake Lanao. I'm not sure if I remember a Christmas tree in that setting, but since my Lola Luz is a true Betty Crocker type, I'm pretty sure we had one. I don't remember a Christmas tree in our home in Baguio ("The Brown House"), but I do remember the giant stone fireplace in our living room, which was a perfect Santa Clause fireplace.
We did have a Christmas tree when we were growing up in Manila, a diminutive model sent from the States by our Auntie Olive. I remember it's usual place in the foyer, perched on a stand in front of the piano, displacing the mahjong table, which would be exiled to the library for the holidays. My Lola Viring would decorate the tree with balls, lights, pearl garlands and a flashing star, which sounds wonderfully normal, except the tree would be surrounded by multi-colored Japanese lanterns instead of parols (which I guess are too pedestrian for my Lola). Every year, around December, our house could be mistaken for a Japanese restaurant, if it weren't for the giant inflatable Santa head occupying the place of honor, right smack in the middle of our living room. Like clockwork, Santa would always appear on December 16th, watching over us being naughty or nice, until his brief reign ends on January 6th.
This year, I'm pretty sure my Lola will have the same tree up, and I'm willing to bet Malumanay will again be ablaze with Japanese lanterns and Santa head.
The first, and thankfully last, live Christmas tree I had was when I was living in Miami with my ex-husband. He was Jewish, and didn't particularly care for Christmas, but caved in to my entreaties for a tree because I was desperately homesick and 7 months pregnant with my oldest son, Max. I wanted to get an artificial tree, just like the one I grew up with, but he said that was declasse and anyway, REAL people bought REAL Christmas trees.
I remember feeling sorry for that tree when I chose it from the lot. My Mom and I trimmed the tree that night, and it was, literally, a very painful experience, leading to the discovery that pine needles pricked like REAL needles. I will never, ever buy a live Christmas tree again in my life. Besides, I cannot in all conscience reconcile the act of killing a tree to celebrate the arrival of He who brings eternal life.
It's appaling to see how people are so desensitized these days. For me, choosing a tree from a lot is no different from choosing a fish from the tank of a Chinese restaurant, knowing the next time you see the poor thing is on a platter with soy sauce on the side. "The Food Channel" once featured this really sick place, where people would pay up to $100 a pound for sushi that is so fresh, it is served between the dead fish's still writhing head and tail ("Nerve endings!", the restaurant owner proudly explains). No wonder this world is so messed up.
Before anyone recruits me to PETA however, I will admit to being a hypocrite when it comes to my favorite crustacean, lobster. During those rare times when I can afford it, I humanely ask the waiter to choose one for me (female please, with lots of roe!). This is a convenient way to avoid passing out the death sentence.
I did manage to turn my ex-husband on to Christmas. He didn't have the heart to rob Max of the holiday just because he had a bris. One of my happiest Christmas memories was going to Duty Free in Manila and buying the biggest Christmas tree I could lay my hands on (no live trees in P.I.!). Back in our suite at the Mandarin, I trimmed the 8-foot tree while Max excitedly watched, getting in the way much like Lance is now underfoot with Lorenzo in the living room. Max loved that tree so much, it followed him to Canada. I know they put it up in their basement last Christmas, with the aid of Connie, my ex-husband's ex-office manager, freshly Fed-Exed from Manila (what she was doing in Toronto was the subject of much speculation).
I remember my first Christmas, post-divorce. Lorenzo and I were already together then, and he flew back to the States ahead of me, my itinerary being Manila-San Jose by way of Miami, where I spent a few precious days with Max.
Lorenzo picked me up at San Francisco International and whisked me to Milpitas to celebrate the holidays with the Serenos. I was still a neophyte in the family, having just met them Spring of that year. Tatay and Nanay were very gracious, taking me sightseeing that weekend. I remember Kuya Sammy driving the van, Tatay riding shotgun, and Nanay insisting we stop at the nearby Vietnamese bakery to buy yummy meat-filled buns for our baon. We met up with Jun, Selina's family and Tito Ed (who would later be a godfather at our wedding) on the way to Monterey and Carmel, and had a wonderful trip.
Back home, I helped Nanay put up the tree. I felt really flattered when she complimented the way I arranged the colored lights, twining them around the branches as opposed to merely stringing them around in a spiral. Of course, this style called for a lot more lights, so Lorenzo had to buy more boxes when he picked up his kids, Joey and Chris, from his ex-wife's house. Chris helped his Dad and me finish the tree, taking over when Nanay retired for the night. The three of us worked feverishly until the wee hours, never stopping until we put the crowning touch on the tree, a blinking star, securely festooned to a pencil for maximum stability.
Lorenzo and I got engaged during that trip. I remember the date: December 28, 1998.
Flash back to the present: Lorenzo is putting up the tree in the living room with Lance, our precocious 3-year-old, in attendance. Troyee, still a baby at 16 months, was relentlessly pursuing the ornament box from all directions, so he was exiled to the family room. He is now contentedly puttering about my feet with his sippy cup.
I wonder if Kuya Sever and Anna are also putting up their tree, a 6-foot one which we gave them last year. It used to be our old tree when we were still living in our townhouse. My question is answered when Kuya Simon squawks my husband on his Nextel, saying Anna won the grand prize, a flat screen TV, in her company's Christmas party. Anna and Kuya Simon's wife, Ate Baby, work together, so I guess the four of them: Kuya Simon, Ate Baby, Kuya Sever and Anna, are living it up in SanFo.
Lorenzo, whose company party is also going on in San Jose, chose to stay home tonight to man the Christmas Tree Technical Committee, whose task it is to assemble our monster 9-foot tree. I head Creative, which means I will put up the ornaments once all the lights are up and running.
I love our Christmas tree, which came pre-lit with over a thousand Christmas lights. It's a formidable presence in our living room, commanding everyone's attention. Now, I must sheepishly confess that when it comes to Christmas trees, I am an unabashed child. Not for me those formal trees, done up in color coordinated ribbons and ornaments, with themes from Medieval to Country to the latest fad of the season. No, my tree will always be a "Kid's Tree", with keepsakes collected from yuletides past strewn higgledy-piggledy over every available branch, all of them telling their own stories:
Lance and Troy's "baby's first Christmas" ornaments,
a white Precious Moments heart, celebrating "our first Christmas together" as husband and wife,
a little round 2001 frame with a tiny family picture,
a snowman from someone's birthday cake,
a beaded candy cane I salvaged from a gift basket...
the memories are endless.
This year we plan to add a "house" ornament, to celebrate our buying our first home. It will take its place among the colored glass balls and icicles, the mini stained-glass houses, the delicate Romanian "turnips", the little gingerbread people, the silver pine cones, and a motley crew of snowmen: small, simple wooden ones, medium ones with woven caps and sleds, and big, fat plastic ones liberally sprinkled with glitter. And oh, did I mention the colored lights, which we pile on in addition to the white ones? And finally, presiding over everything, a Father Christmas teddy bear perched on top of our tree, in place of a star.
As you can see, I can go on and on about our Christmas tree, but Creative has a lot more up its sleeve. For instance, I have a red and blue plaid tree skirt with appliqued snowmen, matching the appliqued stockings on my mantel. We all have our own Christmas characters in our stockings: Lorenzo is Santa Claus, I am a mommy penguin. Joey is a reindeer, Chris and Max are young snowmen, Lance is a baby penguin and Troy is a gingerbread boy. My Mom, who celebrated last Christmas with us, had a Father Christmas stocking. I am putting it up with the rest because it looks too good to be relegated to the garage. Even Boris the Cat has his own stocking, but his will be hung in the laundry room.
A wooden wreath hangs on my front door with a teddy bear bidding everyone "welcome to our cabin", and a gingerbread Mom adorns the door to my coat closet. Christmas candles complete the look: a peppermint pillar, a red ball, and a Christmas tree candle garden. And of course, the piece-de-resistance, the thorn on Lorenzo's side (because Lance hasn't stopped badgering him about it all day), a battery-powered train set which goes around a circular track perfectly bordering my tree skirt.
The boys are finally asleep, and I sort through the ornament box which so fascinated Troy. I take the keepsakes out of their boxes one by one, making sure to keep the original tissue paper and plastic they were wrapped in. I sort them in piles, frustrated again, as I am each year, by the glass balls, which keep rolling everywhere. I survey the damage. More casualties this year...broken balls and icicles, missing hooks, torn threads. I throw away the shards of glass, and work with what's left. Lorenzo swears there were more ornaments last year, and looks in the garage.
I hang my the first colored ball, a delicate pink glass number. There's lots more to be hung before the babies wake up. I'm sure they will be adding their creative input in the morning, knocking down balls here and there, stealing snowmen, biting my gingerbread people. Even Boris leaves his mark, chewing the branches like he would with a natural tree. But this tree will survive the onslaught from kids and cat, much like its predecessors.
And when everything is hung and in place, tinsel icicles will be sprinkled as a final touch, and everyone will retire to a much-deserved celebratory mug of cocoa, topped with mini-marshmallows, melting to a froth.
Hot cocoa, anyone?
Friday, December 06, 2002
BIENVENUE
Welcome to my online journal. The day-to-day musings of a young wife, mother, sister, daughter, friend and colleague. God knows I don't really have the time of day to record my thoughts for posterity, with a husband, two toddlers, a 4 bedroom 2 1/2 bath house and Boris the Cat to take care of, but I'm taking a calculated plunge. Why? Well, aside from the fact that it takes me away from my housekeeping, (another alibi for a seasoned procrastinator as myself), it also affords me the forum I need during those days when I feel particularly verbose, without alienating anyone from my e-mail list. Lucky for me (and for you, if you've ever received one of my epic e-mails), today is not one of those days. So I will go back to making my leche flan, which I plan to give to our new next-door neighbors as a welcome present. Chicken curry is on the stove, waiting for Lorenzo, and my babies are upstairs sleeping. Boris, bless his Russian Blue heart, is in his usual spot, sharing the seat with me as I type this. He purrs, the computer hums, and I am lulled by the sweet somnolence of domesticity.
And everything is as it should be.
Welcome to my online journal. The day-to-day musings of a young wife, mother, sister, daughter, friend and colleague. God knows I don't really have the time of day to record my thoughts for posterity, with a husband, two toddlers, a 4 bedroom 2 1/2 bath house and Boris the Cat to take care of, but I'm taking a calculated plunge. Why? Well, aside from the fact that it takes me away from my housekeeping, (another alibi for a seasoned procrastinator as myself), it also affords me the forum I need during those days when I feel particularly verbose, without alienating anyone from my e-mail list. Lucky for me (and for you, if you've ever received one of my epic e-mails), today is not one of those days. So I will go back to making my leche flan, which I plan to give to our new next-door neighbors as a welcome present. Chicken curry is on the stove, waiting for Lorenzo, and my babies are upstairs sleeping. Boris, bless his Russian Blue heart, is in his usual spot, sharing the seat with me as I type this. He purrs, the computer hums, and I am lulled by the sweet somnolence of domesticity.
And everything is as it should be.
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